


Falling Stars (Fall Too Hard)

by raiining



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Assault, Child Abuse, Cigarettes, Gen, M/M, No Underage Sex, They Meet In The Circus, badboy!Phil, not an au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 02:38:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson doesn't know where he is, but he does know where he's going.  Portland isn't moving any time soon, though, and the circus won't always be in town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling Stars (Fall Too Hard)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is 100% inspired by rascalparadyne's fabulous “Bad Boy Phil” art (http://rascalparadyne.tumblr.com/post/52459956354/allochthon-left-a-prompt-in-my-ask-and-i-resisted). I've wanted to play with this trope for ages and finally caught myself a plot bunny. Enjoy!
> 
> A million thanks to my wonderful beta Ralkana. All remaining mistakes are mine!

Phil leans against the rough brick wall and inhales deeply, ignoring the twinge between his ribs. The sweet comfort of the cigarette smoke relaxes him. He sighs. Hitchhiking and hustling pool is a great way to get cross-country without accessing his accounts, but there are other dangers.

Still, Phil doesn’t think he’s done too badly. A few bruised ribs and another bloody nose are easily measured against three wannabe biker thugs, two of whom are now sporting broken arms. They won’t be slapping any waitress asses for a few weeks now, and maybe by the time they’re out of traction they’ll have learned a thing or two about underestimating their opponents.

Phil makes a face as he finishes his cigarette. He knows being underestimated is a good thing, but he often wishes that he were taller, stronger. He looks down at his ripped jeans and snorts. Might as well wish for the moon. Nine weeks of hard living has given him muscle and definition, but he’s still of average height. The leather jacket helps, but he’d been hoping to put on a few inches by nineteen. No such luck.

The brick wall is growing cold against his back. Phil fishes his pack of smokes out of his jacket pocket and lights another one. He’s getting low – he’ll have to stop at the corner store before he heads out of town. He mentally checks his finances. The bar fight erupted before Phil could hustle his expected amount, and he should probably find another pool hall later tonight to make up the revenue.

Still, overall he’s doing well. A couple more stops and he’ll be able to take a bus the rest of the way to Portland.

He looks around. The building he’s leaning against is on the outskirts of town, the back end of an alleyway that connects to the bar he was scoping out. In front of him is a large empty field. It’s early still, not yet four in the afternoon. Phil was hoping to do some pre-dinner hustling and maybe sleep in a real bed for once. He’d spied a cheap motel on his way into town, sitting in the passenger seat of the transport truck he’d paid to drive him this far. The motel had looked warm, if not comfortable.

He should get up and find another bar, though, something closer to town, a little run down but not so bad that the wannabe biker guys' kinsmen will be around. Phil takes another drag on his cigarette and decides he’ll move in a moment. He likes this brick wall.

A few minutes later, just as Phil’s inhaling the last puff of smoke, a pair of headlights catches his eye. Phil looks across the field and sees a large trailer pull off of the road. Behind it is another trailer, and after that a third. There’re also a number of smaller vans and trucks following. The whole ensemble leaves the highway and starts driving across the field. Phil watches from his wall as the convoy stops.

It’s hard to see from this distance, but pretty soon the brightly coloured fabric makes it clear that the circus has come to town. Phil stays where he is while the tents go up. There aren’t any rides, but there are game booths and a horse paddock and quickly assembled poles that might form the bare bones of a trapeze. Phil smiles.

The circus. He hasn’t been to the circus since he was a little boy. Forgetting his plan to wander closer into town and find another bar, Phil pushes off of the wall and starts to walk across the field. He’s impressed with the speed of the set-up. It’s been little more than a half an hour and the circus is well on its way to being complete.

He reaches the edge of the trailer line and looks around. Several booths are already up and have wares displayed. The thing that might be a trapeze has been hidden under a large brightly coloured tent, and people are wandering around in garish costumes. Phil tries to take a head-count and fails. More people seem to be appearing all the time

He’s not so distracted that he misses the hand trying to steal his wallet, though. Phil spins and has the culprit in a headlock before the reaching fingers even make it to his jeans. There’s a makeshift alley between two now-abandoned trailers. Phil hauls his would-be thief in that direction.

“Hey, lemme go!”

Phil waits until they’re out of sight and away from the hustle and bustle of the quickly assembling circus. He drops his arms. The boy he captured rubs his neck and scowls up at Phil. Phil stares back.

The boy is older than Phil first thought. Hardly a roustabout, he’s probably closer to fourteen or fifteen. He’s small, though, scrawny – he has the too-thin look of someone trying to hit adolescence but failing, probably due to a lack of calories. His cheeks have the particularly hollow look that Phil’s only seen a handful of times before.

The kid catches him staring and scowls. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and Phil has to smile at the fierce look in his eye. Whatever hard knocks this kid has suffered, it’s obvious he hasn’t given up yet.

“Piss off, man.”

Phil lifts an eyebrow. “You’re the one who tried to steal from _me_.”

“It’s a circus,” the kid says, as if that’s a defence. “Pickpocketing is practically encouraged.”

“Uh huh. I doubt the local police would agree.”

The kid rolls his eyes. “Please. Like we’ve never had the police called on us before.”

Phil thinks about it, and then shrugs. They probably have. “Fair point.”

The kid looks surprised, as if hadn’t expected Phil to agree. After a second, though, a light comes into his eyes. “Hey,” he says, suddenly far too eager. “I could give you a chance to earn the money back.”

“You never stole anything from me in the first place,” Phil points out. 

“Oh, yeah?” the kid asks, and lifts a hand. 

Phil watches as the kid flicks his fingers and Phil’s pack of cheap smokes suddenly appears in his palm, along with the five dollar bill he had in that pocket. Phil curses and checks his jacket, but sure enough his cigarettes and money are gone. He’s more glad than ever that his _real_ cash is strapped in a band across his thigh.

“Come on,” the kid dares, grinning. “You can get them back if you beat me at darts.”

“Darts?” Phil asks, because he can’t have heard that right. “Where are we going to find a dartboard at the circus?”

“Over behind Trickshot’s caravan,” the kid says with a shrug. “He always keeps a dart board on the back for target practice.”

Phil purses his lips and looks at the kid. He’s small, sure, and scrawny, but there’s muscle in his shoulders and strength in his arms. He’s also bouncing on his toes and looking far too pleased with his idea. If Phil had to lay money on it – and it seems that he does – he’d say the kid is trying to hustle him. 

He’s intrigued enough to play along, though. Phil can afford to lose five dollars and a three-quarters empty pack of smokes. Despite himself, there’s something about this kid that he likes. 

Phil inclines his head in his best society-dinner approximation. “Lead the way.”

Whoever this ‘Trickshot’ is, he’s obviously not at home right now. The kid sets Phil’s five bucks and cigarettes down on a nearby stump and retrieves the set of darts from the trailer. Sure enough, there’s a board hanging over the bumper. They step back a couple of feet and Phil graciously offers the kid the first throw.

It’s subtle, but no one should ever try to hustle a hustler. Phil watches the way the kid cocks his elbow and the set of his shoulders. When he throws, Phil knows it’s a calculated miss.

“Aww,” the kid says, stepping back. His dart is buried in a green square middle-distance from the bullseye. “Your turn.” 

Phil smiles and throws. His dart lands on the outer ring, scoring low points, and the kid frowns. He steps up to make his next throw, and Phil knocks his elbow when he does. 

The kid scowls and over-corrects. His dart lands exactly centre. Phil grins. “Shucks, you won.”

The kid turns around and glares. “You pushed me!”

Phil shrugs. “So? You hit the bullseye, right? That means you got what you wanted.”

The kid glances at the five dollars and sighs. “I was hoping to string you along for twenty.”

Phil laughs. He can’t help it – the kid looks so dejected. Instead of storming off, though, he meets Phil’s eyes and chuckles. Soon enough the two of them are laughing so hard Phil’s ribs start to ache.

“Come here,” Phil says when they finally stop. He points to the dartboard. “If you want to fool people, you have to make them _want_ to beat you. Pull out the full-stop cocky grin. Swagger. Hide the muscles in your arms and shoulders under long-sleeved clothes and look them in the eye. Challenge them. Make them think _this kid’s a sucker_. When you lose for the first time, get all pouty. You’ve got the eyes to pull it off. Throw even worse than before and start to get angry. Challenge them to a third game. That’s when you turn the tables on them.”

The kid looks like he’s actually thinking the advice over, which makes him smarter than Phil was at that age. “Cocky?”

“Cocky,” Phil agrees. “Relax your stance, too. Don’t make it look so perfect. Practice a careless throw, as if you’re just so damn good that no one on this side of the tracks can beat you. Make people want to put you in your place.”

The kid nods, and then subtly changes. His shoulders loosen, his stance widens slightly. He plasters a shit-eating grin on his face, and it looks as though the devil himself is dancing behind his eyes. “Hey mister,” the kid says, and it’s cocky as hell, “want me to kick your ass at darts?”

Phil’s face breaks into a grin. “Nicely done. Never call me mister again, though,” he says and sticks out his hand. “I’m Phil.”

The kid smiles and his attitude falls away. In a blink he’s just a small, too-skinny teenager with wide eyes that Phil realizes aren’t really one colour or another, but kaleidoscope. He takes Phil's hand. “I’m Clint.”

“Hey, Clint,” Phil says as they shake. “It’s nice to meet you.”

 

*

 

They practice hustling until the sun starts to set. It’s clear that Clint is an expert marksman, even at his young age. Phil learns that he’s apprenticed to the Trickshot who owns this trailer – he’s an archer, and Clint is learning the trade. 

“I’m good at it,” Clint tells him in a sure voice. It’s clear to Phil that it’s a novel experience for the boy. He’s probably never been good at anything before.

Phil can see his history written across his face. Clint startles when there’s a loud noise, his shoulders hunching automatically. Phil knows that means he’s been beaten before, probably by his father, and might still be suffering abuse. He’s too small and too skinny, so it’s obvious that whoever’s looking after him isn’t doing a great job. Phil thinks he’s probably looking after himself. 

Both of his parents are dead, then, most likely. If he had just run away from home, he would have gone back by now. Once Clint says something about a ‘Barney’ before he clamps his mouth shut. An uncle or older brother, then, who’s now gone.

Clint’s alone in the world.

Phil tries to tell himself it’s not his problem. He still teaches Clint everything there is to know about hustling people for money, though. He leaves when the sun goes down and Clint says he has to get ready for tonight’s show. 

“There’s usually one in the afternoon and one at night,” Clint tells him, pointing to the big circus tent that’s now having the finishing touches put on it. “There won’t be much of a crowd tonight, but Carson doesn’t want to miss a chance to make what money he can. Tomorrow the animals will be led out and the midway games will begin. I’m supposed to make myself useful and entertain people waiting in line. My show with Trickshot is at three, and then again at seven. If the crowds are good we might do another at ten, but that’s up to Carson and if he wants to pay for the electricity that will take, and we have to have fire extinguishers on hand in case the fire department shows up. They did once.”

Phil doesn’t miss the way Clint’s eyes go slightly unfocused and he rubs at his left arm, as if remembering the abuse he’d suffered after that particular show. Phil nudges his arm with his elbow, trying to lighten the mood. “Fire department was afraid you’d miss?”

Clint turns to look at him. “I don’t miss,” he says, and his gaze is serious. Phil feels a chill in the pit of his stomach, before Clint suddenly grins and the shadow falls away. “At least, not on purpose.”

Phil smiles back, but it’s a little strained. Clint might look fifteen, Phil realizes, but he’s older than a lot of the socialites Phil knows.

“Good luck with the show tonight,” he tells him. “Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow, see you in action with something other than darts.”

“You should,” Clint says, ducking his head. Phil thinks that maybe he’s blushing, but it’s hard to tell in the fading light. “My costume is pretty hideous, though. Fair warning.”

Phil lifts his hands. “I’ve been warned,” he says, and grins. “See you tomorrow, Clint.”

“Bye, Phil.”

Phil ducks out between the trailers again and makes his way across the field. He was planning on making a few more bucks and then leaving town tomorrow, but it’s not like he’s on a schedule. What’s one more day when the circus is in town?

 

*

 

Phil does well at the pool hall that night and scams a bunch of local hicks out of their cash. He decides to spring for a cheap motel room after all and passes the night in relative comfort, settling in amongst the thin linens as if they're Egyptian cotton.

He wakes at three a.m. from a nightmare involving his mother, ex-stepfather, and his Great-Aunt Cecilia, but manages to calm himself down and get back to sleep. 

He wakes again to sunlight streaming into the room and stretches. The water takes forever to heat up but Phil doesn’t care, shaving in front of the mirror even though there isn’t much hair on his face. He is _not_ thinking about looking good for a day spent walking around the circus with a fifteen year old boy. That would be stupid.

Clint’s just a kid, after all. Phil might be nineteen but he knows the difference those few years make. God, he can remember himself at fifteen, wide-eyed and earnest and too innocent by half. Phil shakes his head. No, this isn’t about Clint. He just likes to look good, that’s all.

Or at least, Phil thinks with a wry smile, examining his already thinning hair in the cheap bathroom mirror, as good as he can.

He showers, dresses in his last set of clean clothes, and tugs on his leather jacket. He grabs his things and settles his bill on his way out. Sleeping in a real bed was nice, but he’s not staying another night. He has places to be. 

The circus is already in full swing by the time Phil eats a late breakfast at a diner and makes his way across the field. There are horses with brightly coloured headdresses on riding through the field while acrobats practice somersaults in the air. Crowds of people flutter between the stalls, wasting time until the show they’ve bought tickets for begins. Phil finds a poster with times written on it in glittering ink.

_Eleven o’clock: Mistress Palfry and her Horse Dancers ExtraORDINAIRE! One o’clock: The Amazing Flying Tilbolts! Three o’clock: Trickshot and Hawkeye – the World’s Greatest Marksman! Five o’clock:…_

Phil smiles to himself as he walks away. The world’s greatest, huh?

As promised, he finds Clint doing tricks to impress the people in line. Phil stands back and watches for a while. Clint is bright and smiling, hiding the tired bruises under his eyes for the crowd. He juggles apples, taking a bite out of each without pausing, and then makes candy appear in his hand. He lobs it to the children in line. Phil can’t help but smile. Some of them aren’t any younger than Clint is, but they scramble after the cheap lollipops as if they’re gold. Phil glances at Clint’s too-thin cheeks and feels suddenly guilty for his stack of diner pancakes that morning. He’d thought he’d been living hard, but he knows that’s nothing compared to what Clint goes through every day.

Finally, the eleven o’clock show starts and Phil walks over to where Clint is putting down his supplies. “I like the trick with the candy,” he says, instead of hello.

Clint starts and turns, but in an instant his defensive stance has smoothed into a welcoming smile. “Hey, Phil! I didn’t think you’d come!”

Phil shrugs, trying to ignore the answering smile tugging at his lips. “How could I miss the world’s greatest marksman?”

He intends the title to be teasing, but Clint only grins. It’s not cocksure, Phil realizes. Clint really does think he’s the best. 

“I’m glad,” Clint tells him “I’ve got a couple of hours, yet. Have you had a chance to look around?”

Phil shakes his head and Clint whoops. “Give me a second to stash this stuff and I’ll introduce you,” he says, darting away with the bag of props. “Stay right there, okay?”

Phil nods and watches as Clint skilfully navigates his way through the crowds. He’s back at Phil’s side within minutes, hands empty and eyes bright. “Come on, this way.”

Clint leads him on a whirlwind tour of the circus’s favourites. There’s Jack the Firewalker, who scowls at Phil until Phil tips him a dollar, and then gives him a gap-toothed grin. Sure enough, he really does walk on fire. Phil tests the embers and they’re smoking hot. The look Jack directs at Clint isn’t so much fond as it is tolerantly amused, but Clint still waves at him when they leave.

Madame Palfry is a little better. She’s the lady who rides the horses, and her two daughters are with her. Phil watches the way they interact with Clint. The girls are a little older than him, but not by much. Madame Palfry doesn’t say anything, though, only smiles, and Phil catches her sneaking Clint a muffin before they leave. Phil feels better to see it. At least _someone_ has noticed that he’s too thin.

After that, they visit the various stalls. Clint whispers trade secrets into his ear. There’s a duck-shooting game where the guns all pull to the left, a balloon game where the darts are differently weighted, and a water-pistol race where the guy at the stand controls who wins. Phil resigns himself to losing money at every stall, and somehow has a great time just the same. It must be because of Clint’s presence at his side, laughing and grinning and joking at every turn. It’s obvious that everyone knows him and at least tolerates his presence.

The prizes are bright and varied, everything from goldfish to stuffed animals to giant lollipops the size of his head. There’s only one stall that has anything Phil even halfway desires, though. It’s a Cowboys-and-Indians set up, with old-style Remingtons mounted on stands and little cardboard horses that race back and forth. The prizes vary between stuffed animals and fake guns, but up high in the corner is a Captain America t-shirt. It looks dirty from travel and it’s not collectable standard, but Phil _wants_ it. 

Clint catches him looking and cocks his head. “I’m not sure what that is – Jerry always makes sure to keep a couple in stock, though.”

“It’s the symbol for Captain America,” Phil says, not surprised that Clint doesn’t know. Half the kids at school hadn’t understood who Captain America was, either, and they were supposedly getting the greatest education money could buy. “He helped the Allies win World War Two.”

“World War Two?” Clint asks, scrunching up his nose. “Is that like Veterans Day?”

“Sort of,” Phil says, instead of trying to explain. “My grandfather fought with him in the war. He said he was a good man, even if he wasn’t a perfect soldier.”

“Huh,” Clint says, staring at the t-shirt. He turns back to Phil with a grin. “Do you want it?”

Phil doesn’t need to think twice. “Yeah.”

“Okay then, here’s what we’re going to do. Jerry’s a mean bastard. His game is one of the worst and it’s impossible to win. You pay him and play a round, and then start to argue when you lose. Make a big fuss and draw his attention. I’ll run up behind him and grab the shirt.”

Phil wants to ask if he’s sure, if this won’t get Clint into trouble if he’s caught, but he squashes that impulse. It’s not like Clint’s his responsibility. “On it.”

Phil fishes out some money and walks up to the stall. Jerry _looks_ like a mean bastard, all uncombed hair and rotten teeth. He takes Phil’s money with an alligator grin and lets him pick his gun. Phil looks over the Remingtons and smiles. These look just like his grandfather’s guns, the ones Phil had never been allowed to play with.

He picks one and loads the chamber with the pellet round. The gun has obviously been heavily modified, stripped down and made into a circus toy. He still lines up his shot as the bell is rung and the little cardboard horses start racing. Phil sights and shoots. What should be a perfect shot _just_ misses. 

He frowns and shoots again. He fires the gun three times, but something must have been altered in the chamber. Each shot goes wide. At the end, the little cowboy horses make it to the end of the run without any holes in them.

“Aww,” Jerry says with an insincere smile. “Good try. Want to play again?”

“Hell no,” Phil says, slapping away the gun. It wobbles on its cheap stand. “This game is rigged!”

“Don’t be a sore loser, kid,” Jerry growls. He stalks closer to Phil. Behind him, Phil can just make out the sight of Clint scampering up the sides of the stall.

“I’m not a sore loser,” Phil retorts. Jerry is big and he smells, but Phil has brawled with worse and lived to tell the tale. “I’m a good shot, and I’m telling you this game is unfair.”

“Oh, you’re a good shot are you? In what, the little league chapter of the NRA?”

“No, in JROTC,” Phil says, straightening his shoulders. He’s proud of the years he spent in JROTC, and his grandfather had been proud, too. “I took championship scores three years in a row.”

“I don’t care if you can shoot an apple off Granny’s big golden head,” Jerry sneers. “Get the fuck out of my booth or I’ll have you thrown out.”

Phil feels his hackles rise, but before he can say anything he sees a hand wave in the corner of his vision. Clint, he remembers, and instantly backs down. It’s almost physically painful, but he lets his shoulders hunch slightly.

“Fine,” Phil says, huffing, and has to watch Jerry grin before he turns away. 

“That was awesome,” Clint says when they meet up again around the corner from Jerry’s game. “I wish you could have socked him. Did you really win a shooting competition?”

“In high school,” Phil tells him, still sullen from having to back down from a fight. He sees the t-shirt held in Clint’s hands and immediately lights up. “Hey! You got it!”

“Course I did. I said I would, didn’t I?”

“Cause circus folk never lie,” Phil teases.

Clint’s face shuts down. “I’m not going to be in the circus forever,” he says, suddenly serious. “Some day I’m going to leave and do good things for people.”

Phil thinks of making some off-the-cuff remark, but one look at Clint’s face stops him. “Of course you will,” he says instead.

Clint nods and hands Phil the t-shirt. It’s white with the red, white, and blue target painted in the middle and the star on the front. It’s cheap and tacky and Phil _loves it_.

“So what did your grandfather do in the army?” Clint asks, as Phil rolls the shirt into a ball and stuffs it into his pants.

“He helped train recruits,” Phil tells him, tying his leather jacket so it covers the bulge. 

“He must be really old.”

“He died a couple of years ago,” Phil says. The pain is less now, but it still aches. “He’s buried in Portland. That’s why I’m heading out there.”

“To visit his grave?”

“Yeah.” The idea had come to him suddenly, like a quest. His grandfather was the only person to understand him. Since he’s been gone, Phil has felt as if he’s floundering. Brian, his mother’s new boyfriend, hasn’t helped. Phil had looked up to him, but he’s since learned that Brian is a dirty cop. Phil hates him.

“The circus doesn’t go that way,” Clint says. “We’re heading east next, across a few more states, and then south. Carson wants to be somewhere warm before winter comes.”

Phil nods because that makes sense. “What are you going to do when you leave the circus?” 

Clint shrugs. “I’m not sure. Archery’s the only thing I’m really good at.”

“You could join the army,” Phil points out. “They like people with good aim.”

“Yeah?” Clint asks, sounding hopeful. “I’ve never fired a gun before. I mean, not a real one.”

“They’ll teach you,” Phil says, sounding confident. He’s sure they will. “You’re good with a bow and arrow, right?”

“I’m the best,” Clint declares in a serious voice. “I have to be.” He glances up at the sky, and then winces. “Shit, it’s almost two. I’d better get to the tent.” He looks over at Phil, suddenly shy. “You gonna watch the show?”

“I’m going to put the shirt in my bag,” Phil tells him, nodding across the field to where he’d stashed his things after leaving the motel. “Maybe I’ll come back after, though.”

“The back left flap is loose,” Clint tells him, shrugging with ill-disguised hope. “If you wanted to sneak in or anything.”

“I’ll think about it,” Phil says. Clint nods and darts away.

Phil watches him go, then makes his way past the trailer line and across the field. He finds his bag in the alley where he’d hidden it and takes the Captain America t-shirt out of his pants. He stares at the symbol on the chest for a moment and thinks about what Steve Rogers would do. 

Phil snorts and shakes his head. Steve Rogers would probably sweep in, help the circus make a million dollars overnight, and then leave half of it to Clint. He’d expose a hidden spy network while he was at it, and probably knock down a Nazi or two.

Phil’s no Steve Rogers.

What he _should_ do is leave before he gets any more attached. He’s already dallied in town long enough. Some part of him really wants to see Clint in action, though. 

What the hell. The whole point of this trip was to stop being the perfect son, to stop trying so hard to win the approval of bribe-taking bullies like Brian. Phil rolls the t-shirt back into a ball and stuffs it into his bag. He makes sure the money pouch with his real cash is still strapped securely to his leg, then turns around and jogs back to the circus field.

He finds the back left flap of the main tent, and sure enough it’s missing a tie. Phil slips under and immediately has to blink to help his eyes adjust. The tent is dim, the spare electric lights scattered around casting more shadow than anything else. He can see the crowd sitting in folding chairs to his right, a quietly muttering burble of moving heads. He’s just to the left of the main rings, not quite backstage, but near enough to get a different perspective than most of the paying customers.

Phil finds a patch of dry dirt and sits down. He doesn’t have long to wait before two bright lights flare, illuminating the floor. Phil watches from the sidelines as the show starts. There’s a quick clown act, three bumbling fools who juggle fruit and hit each other upside the head. It’s funny in a six-year-old kind of way, and Phil’s glad that it doesn’t last long. 

After that comes a trio of more serious acrobats. They aren’t the Flying Tilbolts, who are a headlining act, but they’re obviously the next best thing. They’re good, and Phil forgets for a minute what’s coming as he watches them leap and dance through the air.

After they finish, the lights dim and he remembers. Phil finds himself holding his breath as a single spotlight appears, highlighting an older man standing atop the trapeze platform, holding a bow. 

It’s not Clint, Phil knows, so it must be Trickshot. The man is wearing a tight-fitting circus costume consisting of blue pants and a matching shirt. His face is pointed, serious, and rendered scary in the harsh shadows cast by the blinding light. He lifts his bow and readies an arrow on the string.

From the other side of the rings comes a flash of light, and three brightly coloured balloons explode up from the ground. Behind them three targets are lowered from the tent roof, and Trickshot waits a couple of seconds before shooting three arrows in quick succession. The balloons pop and glitter rains down from their remains onto the crowd below, while the still rising targets show that each arrow has hit directly centre.

Phil claps politely along with the rest of the crowd, but he can’t help but think that archery doesn’t look so hard. As he watches, though, Trickshot pulls two new arrows from his quiver and jumps off the trapeze – he’s obviously attached to a wire, because he slows before he hits the ground. He shoots both arrows on his way down, and Phil suddenly gets why he’s called _Trickshot_. 

The arrows explode the second they leave his bow. The first erupts into ribbons, scattering like miniature fireworks, and the second _literally_ explodes, catching the ribbons on fire.

The entire ensemble has flared up and burnt away before Trickshot touches the ground, and he draws two new arrows from his quiver as he stands. The man spends the next ten minutes doing various effects with his bow, occasionally hitting targets but mostly lighting up the rings with a display of pyrotechnical talent.

It’s certainly impressive, and the crowd oohs and ahhs appreciatively, but Phil doesn’t like the hard, mean look in his eye, or the way he scowls when one of the stagehands is late setting off a display. If this is Clint’s teacher, Phil understands why he flinches when people get too near.

Finally, though, Trickshot bows. He faces the crowd and dips down to his toes, then straightens suddenly and turns. Two arrows fly in quick succession, and Phil looks along with the rest of the crowd to watch their path. He gasps when he realizes they’re heading directly towards a smaller figure standing on the trapeze platform, his young body covered in spangly purple cloth.

Whipping out his own brightly coloured bow, the lithe figure fires two arrows faster than Phil can follow. Miraculously they hit the oncoming arrows _in the middle of their flight path_ and the entire ensemble explodes. The crowd cheers. Phil blinks.

That was… amazing.

For the next twenty minutes Clint – because it _has_ to be Clint, even though the figure looks different in the glaring lights, dark shadows making him look older, accentuating the bridge of his nose and the cleft of his chin – amazes the crowd with his aim. Where Trickshot used fire and gimmicks to delight the audience, Clint uses pure skill. He throws wooden nickels to the crowd and shoots arrows directly at their centres. He creates patterns on the targets, painting circles and hearts and arrows with a series of lightning-quick shots. He draws and releases faster than Phil ever thought possible, with perfect aim every time.

It’s incredible.

By the end, Clint is obviously sweating. His glittering hair is limp despite the gel that must be holding it up, and the sparkles on his chest are smeared. His gaze is triumphant when he glances at Phil’s corner, though, a smile bright on his painted face. 

Phil smiles back.

The show ends quickly after that. The crowd exits the tent talking excitedly, and Phil grins to hear that most of the talk is about that ‘brilliant young marksman’ more so than the amazing Trickshot. 

He hangs around the back of the tent, wondering if Clint will catch up with him. Soon enough, he does. He’s obviously showered since the show, or at least thrown a bucket of water over his head. His hair is damp and sticking up every which way, and the glitter is gone from his chest and back. There’s a little sticking to the fine hairs of his eyebrows, but his face is his own again when he meets Phil’s gaze and smiles.

“So? What did you think?”

“You were amazing,” Phil tells him, completely serious. “God, Clint, that was – I don’t even know _what_ that was.”

“I told you,” Clint says, matter-of-fact. “I’m the best.”

“You are,” Phil agrees. He’s never seen anything like that before. Phil’s crossed the U.S. playing pool, but such simple geometry can’t compare to the incredible skill Clint has shown tonight. Even his dart skills, as impressive as they are, are nothing when stacked against the feats Phil has just witnessed.

Suddenly, a fantastic idea comes into his head. Phil grins. “You _are_ ,” he repeats. “What are you doing tonight?”

Clint frowns. “Uh, chores, mostly. I have one more show at seven and then I have to help Trickshot get ready for tomorrow.”

“So you’ll be done by, what? Nine? Ten?”

Clint looks hesitant. “I can be, sure.”

“Awesome,” Phil says, grinning. “Meet me back here around then. We’re going to put those new hustling skills I taught you yesterday to good use. Tonight, we’re making _money_.”

 

*

 

Phil meets him back at the tent as promised. Clint’s only a couple of seconds late by the time he runs up to Phil from the direction of the trailers. The last of the glitter is gone from his hair and he looks nervous, but there’s a light in his eye Phil remembers from his own days of sneaking out after dark. 

“Don’t worry,” Phil tells him, clapping him on the shoulder before leading him out beyond the circus and across the field. “We’ll have you back before you turn into a pumpkin.”

“It’s not the past midnight thing that worries me,” Clint mutters under his breath, but he follows Phil beyond the field.

Once they hit town, Phil leads him down the street he’d scoped out that afternoon. He found the perfect bar for their endeavour – run down enough not to card Clint on his way in, but not so decrepit that they would turn their back if Phil ordered him a drink. He gets Clint a soda, instead, and challenges his ‘little brother’ to a game of pool.

They play a few rounds while Phil keeps drinking. He’s built quite a tolerance over his weeks of travel, and he’s never been the lightweight his size makes people assume. Still, he makes a big deal out of drinking, growing more gregarious with Clint and slightly louder in general as the night goes on. 

They start betting on bank shots, just a couple of bucks, and then Phil suggests they switch to darts. As they discussed when walking over, Clint shakes his head and backs off. Phil looks around the bar and asks, “Hey, anyone here good at darts?”

A few heads that have been watching them play come up. Two guys from one table shrug and walk over. One is grinning in the mean way that says he’s pretty sure he can take a drunk guy at darts. The other looks more unsure.

Phil plays and doesn’t do too badly. He wins one game against the unsure guy, then loses the other. The mean one claps him on the shoulder and wishes him better luck, and Phil sees the way his eyes find another guy in the bar. The two men share a nod, and Phil has to bite back a grin.

Perfect.

Sure enough, they soon have a crowd forming. Phil keeps up his display of meagre skill while the bets pile on. He also keeps drinking and lets his voice get progressively more and more slurred. Clint’s sitting in the corner watching the exchange, an indecipherable expression on his face. It’s good enough for ‘younger brother watching older brother getting trounced’ that Phil doesn’t pay much attention to it, though. Things are working perfectly.

Phil loses a high-stakes game. He shakes his head and steps back from the board. “Aww, you guys are shit at this. I could beat you with my eyes closed. I could – fuck, my _brother_ could beat you, and he ain’t never played darts before.”

That’s Clint’s cue. He stands up and makes his way over, tugging on Phil’s elbow and trying to lead him from the bar. “Come on, Phil. You’re drunk. Let’s go home.”

“One game,” Phil says, shaking his head and throwing Clint off. “One game. Come on. You guys against my brother. Double or nothing.”

Phil watches the way gazes slide around, how the men he’s spent the past two hours buttering up heft their wallets and think. Sure enough, the two meanest grin and step forward. “Double or nothing,” they agree.

“Awesome,” Phil says, and clumsily presses his darts into Clint’s hand. “Go get ‘em, soldier.”

It doesn’t take long after that. The game is short, brutal, and to the point. Clint wins every throw, and the mean guys are barely done adding up their points before Phil has grabbed the money off the table, saluted drunkenly to the bar, and grabbed Clint’s hand.

“Well done, brother! A round for everyone on us!” he shouts, laying a bill on the bar. The bartender nods and the rest of the crowd cheers, and Phil drags Clint out before the guys by the dartboard can do more than growl.

They dash into the cool night laughing, and Phil tugs on Clint’s hand until they’ve walked down the street and turned a corner. Then they collapse against the side of a building, giggling and chuckling together.

“Did you see the looks on their faces?” Clint asks, catching his breath. “That was _awesome_.”

“You did good,” Phil tells him, beaming at Clint. He blinks and sways slightly on his feet. “Very good. You’re awesome, Clint.”

Clint stops laughing and looks at him, the serious look marred by the amusement still tugging at the corner of his eyes. “You’re drunk.”

“I,” Phil starts, then has to blink again. Clint’s face swims a little in his vision, his kissable lips tempting. Phil shakes his head and stumbles back. “I might be a little drunk.”

“Come on,” Clint says with a laugh, taking his hand to haul him back in the direction of the circus. “A walk will do you good.”

They stumble back towards the field and pause where Phil has stashed his stuff. It’s in an alleyway under an old awning, but it’s warm and dry. “Perfect,” Phil mutters appreciatively, and sinks to his knees. He pillows his head on his bag and sighs in contentment. There’s no way he’ll be getting up to find a hotel room tonight. He’s drunk enough that he feels perfectly comfortable here.

“You can’t sleep in an alley,” Clint protests as Phil gets comfortable. 

“Mmm,” Phil argues, shifting where his bag is digging into his back. “I think you’ll find that I can.”

“At least come back to the circus,” Clint tries. “It isn’t much but it’s warm, most nights.”

Phil thinks about it and shivers. Sleeping all night right next to Clint? With his full lips and kaleidoscope eyes and fifteen year old temptation? Hell no. 

“’m good,” he says, instead, and snuggles further into his bag. “It’s not that cold. I’ve got to leave in the morning, anyway. Oh wait – ” He struggles up and peels half the bills apart in his hand. He slips in an extra fifty, and bets Clint won’t notice. “Here’s your half of the take for tonight.”

“I – what?” Clint asks, staring down at the money in his hand. There’s at least two hundred dollars there. They’d done well.

“Your half,” Phil says again as he lays back down. He’s too drunk to put the rest of it in his carefully concealed pouch, but he’s chosen this spot with purpose. He doesn’t think anyone will find him here before morning. 

“But you need this,” Clint protests, actually trying to give it back. “To get to Portland.”

Phil flaps a hand. “You _earned_ it, Clint. Now get back before someone notices you’re gone.”

Clint hesitates, obviously torn. “If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure,” Phil says, unable to keep from smiling up at him. “I’ve done this lots before, Clint. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” Clint mumbles, and finally backs away. He’s clenching the money hard in his fist, as if his body knows more than his brain does how important it will be. “Will I see you in the morning before you go?”

“I don’t know,” Phil shrugs, yawning. “Maybe. Bye, Clint.”

“Bye, Phil,” Clint says, his voice farther away. Phil closes his eyes. He’s asleep before Clint’s footsteps have faded away.

 

*

 

In the morning Phil wakes cold and sore, but none the worse for wear. He stretches, first one arm and then the other, and winces when the movement hurts his still-healing ribs. He counts the cash in his hand and grins, carefully adding it to his stash. Over a thousand dollars, now. More than enough to get to Portland and figure out what he wants to do after that.

He takes off his dirty t-shirt and pulls on the Captain America one Clint stole for him yesterday. It fits well, just a little loose, and Phil finds a broken window that functions as a half-decent mirror. With his leather jacket and dirt-smeared hair, he looks like trouble incarnate.

Phil’s okay with that. 

He grabs his bag and looks out across the field towards the circus. It’s just past dawn, but already activity is brewing. Clint had told him they’d be packing up later today, after the last shows at noon. The next town is several hours down the highway, heading east, and they’ll arrive to set up before dark.

Phil’s glad he didn’t go home with Clint last night. He can imagine all too easy doing something stupid. Clint is young and gorgeous and talented – even with the circus, he’s got a great future ahead of him. Phil still doesn’t know what he’ll do once he gets to Portland. Maybe get a job.

He thinks for a moment of his mother, of Brian, of the accounts he still has in his name, and he shakes his head. He doesn’t want to go back to that life. For years he’d struggled to do the right thing, to get good grades and be a good son. He’d thought Brian some kind of superhero, because the man was a cop. 

He knows better, now. Brian’s dirty, and Phil’s dream of following him into law enforcement has been shattered. He thinks again of his grandfather, and his grandfather’s grave. He remembers telling Clint that he’d do well in the army, and thinks of his own years in JROTC. Maybe that’s something he could do.

First things first, though. He has to get to Portland.

The circus is heading east and Phil’s heading west. He has the bare bones of a plan now and that’s more than he had before. He also has the memory of Clint’s bright smile and dancing eyes, and dammit if that’s not going to haunt him. 

Maybe he should swing by the circus, just for one last sober good-bye.

Phil hitches his bag on his shoulder before he can over-think it and takes off across the field. The larger booths are still running but some of the smaller things have been taken down. The horses are still in the paddock but they’ve lost their brilliantly coloured helms. The big circus tent is still up and people are coming and going, though. Not as many as there were yesterday, but still a fair number.

Phil looks around for Clint but doesn’t see him. He checks the lines but Clint’s not there, juggling or throwing candy like he had been the day before. He walks around the big circus tent and even ducks under the loose flap – the show currently playing seems to be the Flying Tibolts, and Clint is nowhere to be found.

Finally, after an hour, Phil circles around to Trickshot’s trailer. The dartboard where Clint first tried to hustle him is on the back, but there’s no sign of Clint. Phil tries the door and finds it unlocked.

Most of the windows have been covered, so the door Phil opens provides most of the available light. A figure in the corner twitches at the glare. Phil closes the door and stares.

It’s Clint.

He looks terrible. His face is bruised and bloody and his left cheek is swollen. The way he’s holding his shoulders means there’s probably worse underneath his t-shirt where Phil can’t see. He sucks in a gasp.

“Clint,” he breathes, looking once around the trailer to make sure it’s empty before darting to his side. “What _happened_?”

Clint tries to summon a smile, and fails. “Trickshot heard me coming in. He wanted to know where I’d been. I didn’t tell him.” He sounds proud even through the swelling in his face. “He took the money.”

“All of it?” Phil asks, hands coming up to frame Clint’s face but not quite daring to touch. He doesn’t want to hurt him. 

“All of it,” Clint nods, sounding miserable. “I’m sorry, Phil.”

“Don’t be fucking sorry,” Phil growls. “This is not your fault. _Shit_ , Clint. What can I do?”

Clint shakes his head. “Nothing. Phil, you can’t do anything. Trickshot is… he just is. This is nothing new. Yeah, it hurts and I’m sure I look like crap, but it’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re fucking not _fine_ ,” Phil mutters. “Do you have any painkillers, at least?”

It’s clear that Clint doesn’t, so Phil digs through his bag until he finds the generic brand of acetaminophen he’d bought at a pharmacy a month ago after a particularly bad bar fight. He fishes out two tablets and hands them to Clint, who dry-swallows them painfully. Then he presses the bottle into Clint’s hand. “Keep that.”

“You need it,” Clint protests.

Phil shakes his head. “I can buy another one. Shit, Clint. You’ve got to leave, get out of here. You’re so incredibly talented – you can find another circus that’ll have you.”

“I won’t,” Clint says. His voice is low. For a moment, he loses the spark that Phil had first seen in him, that fierce determination that said he hadn't broken yet. “I’m just a worthless kid with good aim. Everyone says so.”

“I am not everyone,” Phil tells him. He stares at Clint until he meets his eye. “And I am telling you that you are _amazing_. I have travelled all across this country, Clint,” and okay, maybe that’s stretching things a little, but it’s almost true, “and let me tell you, I’ve never seen anyone half as incredible as you.”

“Really?” Clint asks, a thread of hope in his voice.

“Really,” Phil tells him. “You need to get out of here. Maybe you can’t go yet, but one day soon you have to leave. Trickshot is getting jealous of you; you’re obviously better than he ever was. I could see it in the show yesterday – he hates you, Clint. He’s going to kill you one of these days.”

Phil can see that Clint understands. He’s not ready yet, though. Phil’s not sure he ever will be.

But he can make sure he has options if he does. 

“Here,” Phil says, unbuttoning his pants. 

Clint blushes, but he doesn’t look away. Phil leaves his boxers on and shucks down his pants, exposing the money pouch wrapped around his thigh. He undoes the buckles, and shoves it at Clint. “Take this.”

Clint stares at the pouch while Phil tugs his pants back up and on. He doesn’t open it, but he can feel the weight inside. “I can’t take this.”

“Yes, you can,” Phil says, and uses Clint’s shock to wrestle down his jeans. He shows Clint how to strap it around his thigh, so no piece of it shows even when he’s wearing shorts. “You keep this on you and you don’t let Trickshot see. You don’t let _anyone_ see, you got it? You keep this on you and when you want to leave, you leave. You take the money and your bow and you run. Find another circus or join the army or be a fucking mercenary, I don’t care. Just get yourself out and get somewhere safe.”

“Phil,” Clint breathes, touching the pouch reverently with his palm. “I _can’t_.”

“It’s a gift,” Phil says, tugging Clint’s pants back on. “You can’t refuse a gift, it’s rude.”

Clint laughs, and it’s a half-broken sound. “I don’t get a lot of gifts.”

“Well, think of this one as your birthday and Christmas combined.”

“For how many years?”

“All of them,” Phil tells him, looking Clint in the eye. “Every single time you deserved a present and didn’t get it. That’s what this is.”

“Shit, Phil,” Clint says, his voice cracking. “I – ”

There’s a loud laugh from outside the trailer, and both Clint and Phil flinch. “You’d better get out of here,” Clint says, pushing Phil towards the door. “Trickshot’ll be back soon, and I have to get up and help when it’s time to take the circus down.”

“Okay,” Phil says, even though he doesn’t want to. “You’ll leave soon, though, right? Before Trickshot tries to kill you?”

“I will,” Clint promises him. “I never knew how before, but now I think…” he trails off, touching the outside of his thigh where the pouch sits. “I will.”

“You’d better,” Phil tells him. “I’ll keep my eyes out for posters with your name on them. Clint Barton – the World’s Greatest Marksman.”

Clint smiles. Phil picks up his bag and turns towards the trailer door. He looks back once. 

“Thanks, Phil,” Clint says, still sitting on the floor.

“Bye, Clint,” Phil says back. He opens the door and leaves.

 

*

 

It doesn’t take long to find a ride out of town. Lots of folks are going west, just like always, and while Phil might be down to the clothes in his bag and the fifty dollars he has left in his jacket pocket, it’s enough.

He washes his things at the next rest stop and packs everything back in his bag except the Captain America t-shirt, which he puts back on. He wears it all the way from the mid-western States until he hits Portland, weeks later. It’s ragged by now and has a hole in one side, but it’s the only thing he has of the circus. Of Clint. 

It’s a hard journey without the money he had saved, but he makes it without once accessing his emergency funds. He doesn’t know if his mother or Brian are searching for him anymore, but he doesn’t care. He makes it to Portland and his grandfather’s grave, and stands for a while staring at the headstone.

He thinks about everything he’d wanted, everything he’d once believed. He thinks about Clint Barton, hopefully gone from the circus by now, and wonders what he’ll decide to do with his life.

Phil leaves the graveyard and finds the nearest army recruiting office. He signs up.

Ten years later he’s an Army Ranger serving with Nick Fury, and ten years after that he’s a senior agent at S.H.I.E.L.D. He’s negotiating with a HYDRA scientist who wants to defect, standing in an abandoned warehouse in Belgrade. Despite the team of agents he has stationed outside the building in case of emergencies, the extraction he has planned still manages to go belly-up.

A HYDRA agent appears and shoots their defecting scientist in the face, ignoring her protests that her work is too valuable to lose. Phil tries to dive to the side but a shot by his right foot stops him. He straightens instead of running and turns. He recognizes HYDRA agent now levelling a gun at his face.

“So, Phil Coulson,” the man sneers, stepping over the scientist’s limp body on the floor. “We meet again.”

“You didn’t honestly think I came without backup?” Phil asks, trying to stall for time. The Cavalry should be here any moment.

“You think _I_ came alone?” the agent taunts. He glances up, and Phil follows his gaze. He hides his grimace as a shadow detaches itself from the ceiling. A sniper. Great.

“What is it you want?” Phil asks, still stalling.

“You dead, first of all,” the man says. He raises his gun, but before he can shoot there’s a sharp _thwack_ sound, and an arrow appears in his upper arm.

“Ahh!” the man screams, dropping his gun and clutching at his arm. “Barton!”

Phil twitches at the name, even as he whips out his own sidearm and bends to scoop up the HYDRA agent’s weapon with his non-dominant arm. 

“You’re supposed to shoot him,” the agent shouts as Phil levels both weapons at him. “Not me!”

“Sorry,” says a too-familiar voice, not sounding sorry at all. Phil keeps both guns pointed at the HYDRA agent and looks over. The man reppelling down the wall is twenty years older than when Phil had seen him last, but he’d recognize those eyes anywhere.

“Clint,” Phil says, nodding as the man’s feet touch the ground. He doesn’t even try to keep the smile from his face.

“Phil,” Clint Barton replies, nodding back. His grin is loose. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“I was about to say the same. What’s your deal with HYDRA?”

“Nothing that can’t be changed. Why, you offering better?”

Phil grins while the HYDRA agent curses and rolls on the ground. “S.H.I.E.L.D.’s always got an opening for the World’s Greatest Marksman.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D., you say?” Clint asks. He kicks away the lead pipe the HYDRA agent has been going for and levels another arrow at his throat. His bow is new, not the garishly coloured one he used in the circus. The hands holding it are just as sure, though. “Sounds interesting. You got a dartboard there?”

“And a pool table,” Phil offers. He can’t stop smiling. “Only for level four agents, though.”

“Level four? I’ll be a level five.”

“Want to bet on it?”

Clint looks over his shoulder at him and grins. “Always, Phil. Always.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Rising Star](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065911) by [Ralkana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/pseuds/Ralkana)




End file.
